


Stalking Harry

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, POV First Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is the most eligible bachelor in the Wizarding world. Draco Malfoy is a disgraced ex-Death Eater with emotional baggage and a bit of a crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalking Harry

Pansy says I'm stalking him. I insist that I'm not.

I don't follow him home at night and watch him undress through his window. I don't send him anonymous owls declaring my unrequited love or compose epic poems in his name. I don't have a secret room where I tack his newspaper clippings to the wall. 

I'm not some nutter, I assure you. I'm just curious.

It started during the trials. I had all but packed my bags and resigned myself to spending the rest of my miserable life wasting away in Azkaban alongside my father. But then two days before closing arguments, Potter showed up as a surprise witness for the defense—for _my_ defense. And trust me, no one was more surprised than I was. 

A small part of me wanted to hate him for it, to stand up and declare before the entire Wizengamot that I refused to be Potter's new charity case. I wanted to insist that my refusal to identify him that day at the Manor was a misunderstanding, and to remind them that my mother's actions on Potter's behalf had nothing to do with me. It's not that I wanted to be found guilty, I just hated the idea the idea of being indebted to Potter _again._

Thankfully, my self-preservation instincts kicked in and I kept my stupid mouth shut. 

When the verdict was handed down, I was cleared of four of my five charges. The evidence that I had been a Death Eater was inked clearly on my left forearm, even if my solicitor argued the Mark was taken under duress. I allowed myself a sigh of relief for the first time since I took the damn thing. I'd escaped Azkaban and been given a relatively light sentence of two years on license. I was also ordered to attend a rehabilitation course for Death Eater sympathizers, but so were practically all of my friends. 

I sent Harry the finest bottle of Firewhisky money could buy. I might not have liked the speccy git at the time, but I did have manners. Saving someone (loathe as I was to use that word) from prison deserved extravagant thanks.

Over the next few months, something curious happened: I stopped hating Harry Potter. He was everywhere in the months after the war: in every newspaper, at every business reopening, at each charity benefit. He didn't hog the spotlight like he was wont to do back at Hogwarts; he stayed to the side and gave his support to the other witches and wizards who were trying to put our broken society back together piece by bloody piece. There was even a human-interest piece in The Prophet about how he'd adopted the pet crup of a low-level Snatcher who'd been sent to Azkaban for using the Cruciatus Curse on a 15-year old Muggle-born. When asked about it by reporters, Potter had just shrugged, and said “Well, the dog didn't cast the curse, did he?”

Not to mention, the man really has come into his own physically. The Auror training program has done wonders for his physique. His chest and arms have filled out and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed how tight his arse looks in a pair of trousers. I'm not the only one to have noticed, either. In addition to being on the front page of the Prophet nearly every day, he's in the society section every weekend. And each week he's got some handsome bloke or gorgeous woman hanging off his arm, staring at him with wide-eyed awe. He's the most eligible bachelor in the country, while my only foreseeable companion is my right hand and a few sticky lad mags. He's the most respectable and popular wizard in the country, his opinion carries more weight than that of the Minister's, while I am disgraced ex-Death Eater who can't even take a shit without alerting the Wizengamot first. 

He goes about his business of quietly steering the world towards a brighter future and I go about my business of slinking around in shadows and admiring his arse from afar. But that doesn't mean I'm stalking him.

I'm arm in arm with Pansy, walking through Diagon Alley after our weekly rehabilitation course when I spot Potter duck inside the Leaky. Oddly enough, I'm suddenly parched.

“The Leaky?” Pansy's nose crinkles at my suggestion.

“I'm in the mood for some cottage pie,” I lie. 

She rolls her eyes and mutters something about 'slumming it' as she pushes through the door. My eyes immediately find Potter at the bar, flanked on each side by other young Aurors. The Weasel is one of them, I note with mild disgust. 

I direct Pansy to a booth in the corner and take the side facing the bar so I can watch Potter undisturbed. It doesn't take Pansy long to sniff me out though. The bint is surprisingly observant. 

“He's here, isn't he?” she asks without bothering to turn around and check. “Draco, you've got to get over this stupid bloody crush of yours.”

“I do not have a crush, I just happen to appreciate a fine male specimen when I see one.”

“A connoisseur then?” Her lips quirk.

“Of sorts,” I sniff as haughtily as I can. Which is to say, pretty haughtily.

“Being a connoisseur of fine male specimens would imply that you actually, you know, had contact with any. You haven't had a date since Theo left you for Zacharias Smith. And this Potter fixation? It's unhealthy, darling. Nothing is ever going to happen there.”

Trust me, I know that. I know that better than anyone, but that doesn't stop my stomach from fluttering each time I see that messy, black mop of hair pass me on the street. It's not like I'd ever be so daft as to do something about it. I'd never tell Potter, that would require actually _talking_ to him, which I simply cannot do. Even after everything we've been through, what would I have to say to him? _Sorry about teaming up with the man who was trying to kill you, fancy a shag?_ I won't talk to him, but it doesn't hurt to look. The heart wants what the heart wants, after all.

I watch as Potter bends over to pick up a fallen napkin. The top of his shirt rides up and exposes a sliver of his lower back. Something stirs deep inside my groin. Apparently, the prick wants what the prick wants as well. 

Pansy heaves a heavy sigh and heads to the bar. She orders a Firewhisky neat for herself and a gin and tonic for me. It's not even three in the afternoon yet, but that's never stopped either of us before. I listen absently while she prattles on about the holiday she and Blaise are planning after the rehabilitation course ends. Neither of them was officially charged with a crime, but being Slytherins and friends with yours truly was enough to get them labeled as sympathizers. Apparently, being my friend is a legal liability. 

Pansy talks and I pretend to listen, but I'm really sneaking covert glances at Potter over her shoulder. He's bending over to whisper something into the ear of a petite blonde witch with bouncing curls. I feel a flash of jealousy in my stomach. I don't know whether to be more jealous of the blokes or the birds that end up in Potter's bed. Whenever I see him with a woman, I'm reminded of the fact that that could _never_ be me: I look ridiculous in a skirt, trust me on that one. The fact that Potter also dates men is just salt in the wound.

Pansy's huffing distracts me from my self-pity. She's frowning hard and it's less than flattering. I'd tell her this, but she'd likely smack me.

“Draco, have I ever told you about my cousin Nicolas?”

“No,” I say warily, hoping this conversation isn't about to take the turn I fear it is.

Naturally, it does.

“He's my cousin on Maman's side. Breathtakingly handsome, ridiculously intelligent — top of his class at Beauxbatons.”

“How fascinating,” I deadpan. 

“He's just moved to London to take a position at Gringott's,” Pansy continues unchuffed. “I think the two of you would really get on. He's French...but you're an arsehole, so it'll work.” 

I hold up my hand to stop her. This isn't the first time Pansy has tried to set me up and I sincerely doubt it will be the last. But I'm not really in the mood today.

“Darling,” she pouts, resting her hand on top of mine. “You're never going to get over this silly little crush on Scarhead if you don't start seeing other people.”

“It's a moot point anyway,” I tell her with a sigh. “I'm disgraced, I'm poor, I'm disfigured. Who'd even want me?” I know I sound like a bit of a sad sack, but I prefer to be realistic, to face the facts. It's really not so bad being me. I may not have much to offer a potential lover, but I'm still better than most of the miserable sods out there. The Malfoy name still counts for something.

“Don't say that, Draco.” I hate when Pansy sounds genuinely sympathetic. Something about it is unnatural; it unnerves me. “You're not disfigured.”

My hand goes to the crook of my left arm automatically. But it's more than the Mark I'm talking about and she knows it. “Yes I am,” I say resolutely. I don't need Pansy to pity me. Like I said, I'm just facing facts. “You've seen the scars.”

It's ironic that the man I'll never have is the one who gave me the scars that ensure no one else will ever want me either.

Pansy removes her hand and grabs her drink, knocking the rest back in a single gulp. “I refuse to talk to you about this while you're being melodramatic.” And there's the heartless bitch I know and love. Balance has been restored to the universe.

“Fine by me. I'd rather not talk about it, full stop,” I snap. Pansy knows I hate to talk about my love life, or lack thereof. But the woman is like a dog with a bone. She thinks that just because she's found true love — or some rubbish — everyone else must as well. “Why don't you keep your ugly pug nose out of my love life?” I add nastily.

“You've got no love life for me to put my ugly pug nose in,” she bites back.

Point, set, match, Parkinson. 

“Come on, let's get out of here. I hate this fucking place. I'll make you a goddamn cottage pie myself if you really want. I'm afraid I'll catch an incurable case of poverty if I stay in this hole a moment longer.” 

She grabs my neglected gin and tonic and downs it in one. For such a tiny woman, I've always been impressed by the amount of alcohol Pansy can put back. She once beat Vince in a drinking contest. The poor boy threw up all over the common room carpet. That was back when we were in school, of course, when Vince was still alive. 

With a sigh, I shuffle out of the booth and follow her towards the door. As we leave, I can't stop myself from looking over my shoulder to get one last glimpse of Potter. His eyes meet mine and I immediately turn before he can see the flush creep up my neck. As much as I love to I look at him, I hate it when he looks back.

xxx

I'm sitting in the canteen at St Mungo's, waiting for Pansy to come down and have lunch with me. It's my day off, but I can't stand to stay home and eat alone. I'd take cafeteria food and Pansy's insufferable company over the silence of my empty flat. Visiting the Manor isn't even an option. I'm not sure how I feel about my father anymore, but I know that home doesn't feel the same without him there, ordering around the house elves and pulling my mother into dark alcoves for a discreet snog. My mother carries on, as we all do, but the Manor is just a really fucking depressing place to be sometimes.

The fact that I find a hospital canteen preferable should speak volumes.

I'm too busy glaring at the soggy chips on my plate to notice when Potter approaches me.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” 

I'm more than a little surprised. Not only by the fact that Potter is even deigning to talk to me, but by the anger in his voice. I haven't done anything to upset him lately. At least, I don't think I have.

If the surprise shows on my face, it's only for a moment. 

“What, no 'Hello, Malfoy, how's your mother?' Didn't your muggles ever teach you any manners, Potter?” I drawl, sitting back in my seat. I'm not quite sure how I should act around Potter now that I'm practically in love with him, so I revert to the familiar. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he repeats.

“Eating a plate of chips,” I motion towards my plate. “Is that suddenly a crime? Here to arrest me then?”

Potter leans over the table, crowding my space. His hands are balled into fists on the table and I can see an angry tic in his jaw. His eyes blaze with fury. The overall effect is incredibly arousing. No wonder I used to goad him so much in school. Why on earth did I ever stop?

“No, but stalking is,” he hisses. “I don't know what you're playing at Malfoy, but if you don't cut it out, I'm going to file a complaint.”

I can feel my mask of indifference slip for a moment. Fuck. He's noticed. I still maintain I'm not actually stalking him though. I like to look at him and if we happen to frequent the same establishments occasionally, that's hardly my fault. Wizarding London is only so big.

But this time is different. I'm not here because Potter is here. Hell, I didn't even know Potter was going to be here today. I'm waiting to have lunch with a friend, which is a legitimate and not at all stalker-ish.

“Egotistical as ever, I see. I'm not quite sure how eating a plate of chips translates into stalking, but I've always suspected your little Gryffindor brains didn't work quite in the same way as the rest of ours'.”

I grab my glass of water and take a sip. I send a silent prayer to Salazar that I look unconcerned, but my throat is dry and my palms are sweating and _holy shit I've been found out._ It's been almost a month since we made eye contact at the Leaky and I was sure I'd been more discreet lately.

Potter shuffles and I'm sure he's about to grab me by the front of my robes when I hear a familiar voice. 

“Is there a problem here, boys?”

Thank fucking Merlin. Bless Pansy Parkinson and her miraculous sense of timing. 

“Yeah, there is,” Harry turns to glare at her. “Your little ferret-faced boyfriend won't quit following me around. Everywhere I go, he's there just fucking staring at me. I can't even get my annual physical _at the bloody hospital_ without seeing the wanker.”

Potter's insults haven't improved since Hogwarts, I note. 

“As sure as I am that the world revolves around you, Potter, Draco is actually here to see me,” Pansy brushes past him to take the seat opposite mine. Potter actually has to step out of her way so she can sit. “I work here, you know.”

“You're a Healer?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, Potter,” Pansy drawls. It used to drive me mad when she did that because drawling is _my_ thing, but she sounds so condescending at the moment that it actually makes me gleeful. “Hardly a year out of school and I'm already a fully qualified Healer. If I keep it up, I'll be Chief of Magical Medicine before the month is out.” 

Pansy brews healing potions in the apothecary, but she obviously doesn't feel Potter deserves to know this. She grabs a chip from my plate and bites into it, sending me a wink over the greasy potato.

She makes a show of chewing it slowly. She turns to Potter as if in surprise. “Oh, you're still here then?”

In that moment, I am in love with her. I would reach across the table and kiss her straight on the mouth if the idea wasn't so repulsive to me. Forget pugs; if Pansy were any sort of dog, she'd be a bloody pitbull.

Potter hesitates a moment. He glares down at me and I swear to Merlin, that look alone gives me half an erection. 

“I'm watching you, Malfoy,” he points a finger menacingly. I try not to think about how large and strong his hands are, or about how much I want to wrap my lips around that finger and suck on it like it was altogether another part of Potter's anatomy.

With a final glare for Pansy, which she dismisses with an eye roll and another bite of chip, he stalks off. I let out my breath and sink back into my seat. 

“Draco,” Pansy breaks the silence that Potter left in his wake. I do not like the way she is looking at me, thoughtful and curious. “I've told you about my cousin Nicolas, right?”

I take back everything I said about loving Pansy Parkinson and her sense of timing.

“Fine,” I glower. “I'll meet your bloody cousin.”

“Brilliant,” she smiles. “You're free Friday? Oh wait, _of course_ you are. Because the man you're obsessed with hates your fucking guts. Silly me, how could I forget?”

Like I said, a pitbull. But that's a true Slytherin for you — kicking your opponent when he's already down, just for shits and giggles. It makes no difference if your opponent is also your best friend.

“I said I'd meet your damned cousin,” I snap, pulling the plate of chips towards me and swatting her hand away when she tries to reach for another.

xxx

I actually like Nicolas, surprisingly enough. Pansy may have exaggerated a bit with ‘breathtakingly handsome,’ because he's nowhere near as gorgeous as Potter. Nicolas has dark brown hair that curls at the ends and long floppy bangs that he constantly has to push out of his eyes. It annoys me at first, watching him flip his hair back every few minutes, but the first time I reach out and swoop the hair off his face myself, I no longer mind. His eyes aren't the brilliant green I prefer, but they're a beautiful light hazel, and they dance when he laughs.

His cock — dark red, and long and hard when he pushes inside me — is beautiful enough to make me forget about Potter, for the moment at least.

We've been seeing each other for going on two months; the longest romantic relationship if my life, truth be told. I'm standing outside of Gringott's, waiting for Nicolas to finish work so we can go to dinner. There is a new Greek restaurant at the far end of Diagon Alley that I want to try. He's already ten minutes late and I'm getting impatient. I light another cigarette with the tip of my wand and lean back against the stone wall of the bank.

I don't notice Potter turn the corner and head straight towards me.

“Never give up, do you Malfoy?”

“Piss off, Potter,” I roll my eyes. “I'm waiting for someone.”

“I'm sure you are. Tell me, Malfoy,” he spits my name, “does this mystery person actually exist or are you just trying to cover for the fact that you're stalking me again?”

“Stalking you? Are you still on about that?” I laugh. Never let it be said that I fancy Potter for his brains. I've been with Nicolas for almost two months and haven't gone out of my way to be in the same room with Potter in at least one. Of course, Potter wouldn't notice that. He only notices me when it's convenient for him. “If memory of sixth year serves me correctly, you're the one who can't stop following me around.”

“Is that what this is about then?” He asks, plucking the cigarette from my fingers and taking a drag of it himself. I try not to notice the way his lips wrap around the end of the butt. “Some sort of lame attempt at revenge?”

“There is no 'this' to speak of,” I drawl, trying to keep my anger in check. I can't let Potter know how much he affects me. “You're delusional as ever, I see.”

Potter opens his mouth to retort, but then Nicolas arrives, looking curiously between the two of us.

“Draco?” he asks. “Who is this?”

I snatch my cigarette back from Potter and throw it the ground, grinding it into the concrete underneath the heel of my boot. 

“Nicolas, this is Harry Potter. Potter, this is Nicolas. _My boyfriend._ ” Nicolas and I have never talked about what we are to each other, never agreed to make it official. But he doesn't say anything to contradict me and I'm grateful for it. 

Nicolas appraises Potter, his light eyes running up and down Harry's body and taking in the details. If he is impressed, he hides it well. “The great Harry Potter,” he says with a slight bow, his accent thickened for show. “Your name is known throughout the wizarding world. Although, I must admit, you look taller in pictures.” 

I push off the wall and slip my arm through Nicolas's. “Ta, Potter,” I call out over my shoulder, not even bothering to hide my smirk as we walk away. I told him I was waiting for someone.

xxx

I hate Ministry functions, but as a low-level Ministry employee, it would be poor form not to go. I'm still in a precarious position socially and must take even opportunity to show that I am a good little wizard now. At least I have Pansy and Nicolas here with me: Pansy to gossip with during the long dinner and boring speeches and Nicolas to sneak off with and snog while no one is looking.

Potter is here, too, but I'm doing a good job of ignoring him. He's not doing nearly as good a job ignoring me. I catch him staring at least three times before the speeches have ended and once more when I'm dancing with Pansy. I catch his eye and silently mouth “fuck off” to him over Pansy's shoulder.

Never one to turn down an invitation to an open bar, I'm pleasantly pissed by the time the party begins to wind down. Nicolas has pushed me into dark corners and hidden alcoves nearly half a dozen times tonight, leaving me aching and unfulfilled each time. After a drunken Pansy leaves, thrown over the shoulder of Blaise Zabini, I grab Nicolas and drag him onto the balcony. 

I can feel the length of him through our robes as he pushes me against the wall. But it's not all I want, not tonight. I can see Potter's brilliant green eyes flashing in my mind and I want to be fucked, to be taken, with the image of them clearly in my head. 

Nicolas makes a noise of happy surprise when he bends me over the balcony railing and lifts my robes. It's dangerous, what we're doing — fucking like animals on the minister's balcony while party guests mill around inside. But that's okay. In fact, it's a part of the appeal.

From my position I can see two people below, walking towards us through the gardens. I'm about to tell Nicolas to keep it down — he's always so bloody loud when he's drunk — when the light from the house reflects from one of the garden walker's glasses. It's Potter. Even silhouetted by the light, I've spent enough time watching him over the years to recognize the man when I see him.

And now I _really_ want to get fucked.

I push back against Nicolas, matching him thrust for thrust. The wet slapping noise of his balls hitting my arse breaks the silence of the evening with an ever quickening staccato. He grunts as he thrusts and I hiss at the pleasure of the intrusion. I feel light-headed, partially from the champagne and the deep dicking I'm receiving, but mostly from the knowledge that Harry fucking Potter is twenty feet below me and this is the closest I'll ever get to fucking him. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine that it's Potter behind me.

Nicolas begins to slow and I whimper in protest. It's not a very dignified, Malfoy-esque sound, but being buggered on a balcony is hardly dignified, Malfoy-esque behavior, now is it? I feel him shift behind me, changing positions, and know that I'm in for it. He thrusts in hard and I have to scramble to keep my grip on the railing as he pounds inside of me. He grunts with each thrust and I groan. I want to rest my forehead against the railing and let my body go as limp and loose as I can, to open myself for him, but Nicolas won't let me. He threads his fingers through my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to stare out at the gardens.

I know that despite the drink, neither of us is going to last long. Nicolas's cock rubs against my prostate with every thrust and I am rapidly losing control. I reach under my robes for my cock, cursing the fabric that gets in my way, desperate to touch myself. I pull myself in time with Nicolas, but my unfocused eyes are searching the gardens for Potter. 

He's still there, but his companion has left. My stomach drops when I realize that he's standing there, head tilted back and eyes fixed on the balcony. He's watching us; he's watching me. It only takes three more strokes and I'm lost, painting the rails of the balcony with white ropes of my come. I don't even bother to stifle my cry; I want it to be loud, and I want to make sure that Potter hears me. I want him to know what he's missing, to know what he could have if he weren't such an enormous prat. 

It takes another minute or two before Nicolas follows me over the edge, but I don't take my eyes off Potter's silhouette the entire time. Nicolas slumps over me, pressing sticky kisses on my neck. I close my eyes and relax into the tender assault, allowing myself to bask in the warm afterglow of a good fuck. We pull apart, cast a few cleaning charms, and tuck ourselves away. I spare one last sweeping glance of the gardens and am disappointed to find that Potter is gone.

xxx

Weeks pass before I see Potter again. Well, that's not strictly true. I see him all the time at the Ministry. Even though the Auror offices are two floors below the Obliviation Department where I work as a glorified errand boy, he's always upstairs, slinking through our halls. It's not that surprising, as our departments work together all the time, but his presence is a constant irritation. Hasn't anyone in the Auror department ever heard of an interdepartmental memo? Or are they just too busy saving the world to bother with standard ministry procedures?

What I should have said was that weeks pass before I actually speak to Potter. (Not that I really talked to him the night at the Minister's party, mind.) I've decided to walk home from work. I usually floo directly to my flat, but the weather is mild and I could use the exercise. The only exercise I take regularly isn't the kind you can do at the gym. 

Either way, I've just ducked into a narrow alley so I can light a cigarette with my wand, beyond the prying eyes of muggles, when I hear it: a soft whimpering, almost mewling, sound coming from deep within the alley. I follow the noise and find a half crushed cardboard box on the ground. I'm about to cast a few detecting spells when a furry, grey face pops out and stares at me.

It's a kitten, a tiny ball of dirt-stained fur that can barely keep its eyes open. She's missing patches of fur and the skin that peaks through is riddled with scabs. Judging by her size, I'm sure she's the runt of her litter. I have a soft spot for runts — I was a bit of a runty child myself — so I scoop up the poor beast and make a beeline for the only vet I know. Franklin Bones has a small practice just off Diagon Alley. He specializes in magical creatures, but I'm sure his knowledge of kneazles exxtends to other felines..

As a child, I'd always wanted a cat of my own. Growing up, Pansy had a gorgeous Siamese she called Cleo, who would hiss and scratch at anyone else that tried to pet her. It was a vicious thing, but I always admired its loyalty. The summer before I left for Hogwarts I begged my parents to let me get a cat to take with me, but my father claimed that cats were for witches, not wizards, and insisted I take one of his prized Eagle Owls instead. Apollo was a beautiful bird, but he left something to be desired in the snuggability department.

I've been sitting in Dr. Bones' waiting room for fifteen minutes when the bell above the door jingles and Harry Potter walks in. He's got a small, black dog in his arms. I focus my attention on the kitten and ignore Potter as best I can. Which is to say, not at all.

It takes him a few minutes to sign in with the welcome witch, but when he's done he saunters over and takes the seat next to mine. 

“All right, Malfoy?” he says by way of greeting. It's casual — as if we're friends — and immediately puts me on guard.

“There are five other perfectly servicable seats in this room, Potter. Is there a particular reason you've chosen to violate my personal space?” I ask archly.

I can practically hear Potter's brain working through ways to twist my words, but he settles for a grin and ignores my question. “What have you got in there, Malfoy?” he asks, trying to sneak a glance at the kitten I've got cradled against my chest. “Some sort of demonic experiment gone wrong?” 

“I'll have you know, Potter,” I drawl, “that this is a perfectly normal kitten of non-demonic origin.” I adjust my hold so Potter can see the poor little thing.

“Looks a bit mangy to me,” he observes unhelpfully. 

“It was abandoned in a muggle alley not far from the ministry – of course it's a bit mangy. What's your excuse?”

The kitten catches a glimpse of the Crup that Harry is holding and lets out a strangled yowl. Its claws dig into my chest through the layers of my clothing as it tries to scramble from my grip. 

Harry, sadistic bastard that he is, laughs at my startled cry of pain. “I never thought I'd see the day.” He flashes a bright smile that darkens my mood. “Draco Malfoy saves a kitten, someone should alert the Prophet.”

“Oh, get bent” I grumble. “Besides, I don't seem to be the only one who has a kink for saving poor, defenseless creatures.” I add, motioning towards the dog in his arms.

“A kink, really?” Potter raises a brow. “If I had to guess your kinks, Malfoy — and I'm sure you have plenty — I never would have guessed that you got off on saving animals. It's a bit weird, don't you think?” His voice is light and full of good humor.

If I didn't know any better, I'd be sure that Potter was flirting with me. I feel entirely off my game, truth be told. In all the years we've known each other, Potter and I have never talked like this. And I don't just mean the subject matter — which is getting very dangerous, very quickly — but the almost friendly rapport. This is playful teasing, not cruel taunting, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. 

“Spend a lot of time trying to guess what I get off on, do you?” I finally ask.

Harry cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “A bit. Although, I'd imagined you as the type who gets off on getting off in very public places. The balcony at the minister's estate, for example.”

The worst thing about being as pale as I am is the fact that I can turn as red as a tomato's arse in less than a second. Of course I knew that Harry saw me; that _had_ been the point, after all. But it demonstrates truly horrible breeding for him to bring it up. When you stand in the shadows and watch your boyhood rival get fucked in the arse by his French lover, the only polite thing to do is never mention it, ever. 

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” I sniff.

“Oh, I'm sure you do,” Potter counters with a bit of a leer.

“I'm sure I don't,” I insist. Bloody hell, do I need to buy this wanker an etiquette book for Christmas?

Potter opens his mouth to retort. I'm sure we could have continued our game of _“no I didn't,” “yes you did”_ indefinitely, but I am saved by a witch in dusky rose robes who calls my name, beckoning my furry ward and me into an examination room. I don't say another word to Potter as I leave, but I can hear the his soft laugh behind me as I walk down the hall.

xxx

I do my best to avoid Potter after that. One the rare occasion that I do pass him at the Ministry or on the street, he nods in acknowledgment but doesn't say anything. I'm a bit thrown by this, I must admit. After the encounter at the vet's, I was sure I'd never be able to be in the same room with him without his teasing, but he doesn't mention the incident on the balcony again.

I don't know how to feel about Potter anymore. A few months ago I would have given my wand arm to be worthy of his notice. And considering that the way I got his notice (arse up and moaning), I'm surprised that he treats me with relative civility. And sometimes I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye and can't help the thrill that runs down my spine. 

It feels unfaithful to Nicolas, but I still want Potter. I've given up any delusion that Potter will ever want me back, but I'm not so naïve that I don't recognize a certain hunger in Potter's gaze. He'll never want me the way that I want him, but it appears that my little show has affected him at least on a carnal level. I may indulge myself in a fantasy here or there, in my morning shower or on the nights that Nicolas stays at his own flat, but I know it will never be anything more than fantasy. Potter may be the man I want, but I would never throw Nicolas over for something as insubstantial as a one-off. 

Or at least, I don't think I would. I tell myself I wouldn't at least, but I've yet to have my resolve tested. 

Nicolas goes back to France for a week to celebrate his mother's birthday the same weekend that Mother and Aunt Andromeda decide to go on a mini-break to continue rebuilding their fractured relationship. It's something they've been working on since the war ended and slowly the remaining members of the estranged Black family are coming back together.

I suppose it's for the best that Nicolas is out of town, because I get saddled with the responsibility of caring for my cousin when Andromeda needs a break. I don't mind so much. It's kind of novel, really, having someone so small and helpless in your charge. He's toddling now, a complete hellion on two unsteady feet.

The day before he's set to arrive, Pansy and I go to Flourish and Blotts. Teddy's too young to appreciate the dark arts grimoires and wizard porn that litter my flat, so I decide that having a few children's books on hand would be a wise decision. Pansy, who claims to have had every maternal bone in her body surgically removed, just snorts and disappears into the bowels of the Romance section. There's a series of novels about a raven-haired Auror and his serpent-tongued blond paramour that she's addicted to. Utter rot, in my opinion, but there's no accounting for taste. 

I'm trying to decide between two colorfully illustrated books on dragons, when I feel someone step up behind me. So far I've been able to avoid being hexed in public, but my guard is always up. I slip my hand into pocket and finger my wand, just in case I need to defend myself from some half-wit's idea of vigilante justice.

“Malfoy,” a voice says and I can't help but jump.

I spin, pulling my wand out.

“Potter! You should know better than to slink around dark corners and startle ex-Death Eaters. I nearly hexed your bollocks off!”

Potter laughs and leans against the shelves. He drips his usual casual sensuality and I can barely stand it. “Of all the things you'd do to my bollocks, I'm sure hexing them off isn't one of them.” My blush is furious and almost as telling as the interested twitch of my cock. Potter grins his stupid crooked grin, which would look idiotic on anyone else, but somehow makes him look like a muggle film star. “What have you got there? No offense, Malfoy, but that looks a bit elementary for you.”

“It's not for me,” I snap, shoving one the books onto the shelf and holding the other to my chest defensively. “My cousin is staying with me this weekend and I'm picking up some things I think he might like.”

“Your cousin?” Potter asks, pushing off the shelf and looking surprised. “Teddy is staying with you? Where's Andromeda?”

“She's having a spa weekend with my mother, if you must know.”

“But he's my godson,” Potter says, and I swear he's pouting a bit. “Why didn't Andy ask me to watch him?”

“Don't get your knickers in a twist. I always watch him when Andromeda goes out of town. We're family, you know.”

“He's my family too,” Potter snaps. “I haven't seen Teddy in months.”

“Perhaps Andromeda didn't want to impose on The Great Harry Potter.” I shrug and turn my attention back to books on the shelf. “Or maybe she just doesn't want Teddy exposed to your playboy lifestyle.”

“Playboy lifestyle?” Potter snorts. “That's rich, coming from you. Been to any Ministry galas recently, Malfoy?”

“I don't know, Potter,” I say as tartly as I can. “Have you seen me at anyway? I know how much you like to watch.”

I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye and feel victorious to see he's colored with a light blush. But my victory isn't as sweet as it should be, because it's all so pointless. We're adults now, the war is over, and frankly, I'm tired of sniping with the Boy Wonder. Winding Potter up has always had its charms, but this is going nowhere. 

“Look, Potter,” I sigh. I can't believe I'm about to extend the olive branch, but one of us has to be the bigger man. “If you want to see Teddy, why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

Potter looks at me as though I've grown another head. And considering what I've just offered, I don't blame him.

“Seriously? You're inviting me round?”

“Have you got a Bertie Bott's stuck in your ear? I don't like to repeat myself. Is half-seven all right? I'll owl you the address.”

He blinks. “Uh, half-seven. Sure.”

I'm glad for the few inches I have on Potter, because I look down at him as best I can and nod. Before he can say another word, I sweep from the narrow aisle with a flourish of my robes that would make Professor Snape proud and beeline for the Romance section. I grab Pansy by the arm and hiss that we're leaving before she has the chance to object or I can think properly about what I've just done. She gives a startled cry as the tawdry paperback she's reading falls from her hand and lands on the floor with a quiet thud.

xxx

To say I'm a nervous wreck for the next twenty-four hours is a gross understatement. I cast every cleaning charm I can think of and practically elfnap poor Flipsy from the Manor. I can make a perfectly serviceable meal on my own, but for some reason it doesn't seem right to subject Potter to my half-arsed attempts at cooking.

Aunt Andromeda brings Teddy through the Floo a little before seven. It's only been a few weeks since I'd seen him last, but he seems to have grown so much since then. He cries a bit when Andromeda transfers him to my arms, but a few gentle coos and he settles down quickly. With a few doting kisses for Teddy and one of me, Andromeda makes me promise that I'll not hesitate to Floo if I need her and then disappears into the flames. 

I sit Teddy on the floor and watch carefully as Lyra, the newest member of the Malfoy clan and the only one completely covered in fur, pads out from her hiding spot underneath the sofa. She's put on weight since I brought her home and has acclimated quite well to being a pet. She spends most of her time sleeping, either curled into a ball on the sofa or stretched out on the kitchen floor, warming herself in the sunlight that pours in through the windows. She spends the rest of her time following me about the small flat, curling around my feet and begging for food. 

Nicolas hates cats and wishes I'd get rid of her, but I won't be moved. At least the feeling is mutual; on the nights that Nicolas stays over, Lyra keeps her distance. But even on the nights that he isn't here, my bed is never empty. In some ways, sleeping with Lyra is preferable to sleeping with Nicolas. She keeps my feet warm and never snores.

Lyra and Teddy take to each other quickly. After a minute of careful sniffing, Lyra decides that Teddy is a good sort. She climbs into his lap and nuzzles at his chin. He lets out a delighted squeal and tries to wrap his chubby arms around her, but she deftly escapes his grasp. She doesn't run far though, and I scoop her up to show Teddy the proper way to stroke her. Within minutes she's purring and pushing her head back against Teddy's small hands, clearly wanting more of his affection.

I don't know when I got so soft, but the sight before me is the most precious thing I've ever seen. Babies and kittens, if only the Dark Lord could see me now.

There's a knock at my door. The clock on my mantle reads 7:20 and I'm almost impressed that Potter has managed to be on time, early in fact. Picking Teddy up, I make for the entrance, trying not to trip over Lyra as I go. 

Potter is standing on my doorstep, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. He doesn't hide his look of surprise when he sees Teddy in my arms. 

“Malfoy,” he nods. His voice is softer and he actually smiles as he turns his attention to his godson. “Hallo, Teddy, remember me?”

Teddy makes a small, disgruntled noise and curls into me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. Potter looks absolutely crestfallen.

“Don't worry about it,” I shift Teddy in my arms and take a step back to allow Potter inside. “He's just shy. Aren't you, Teddy?”

Teddy makes another small noise and strengthens his grip on my jumper. 

“Mind Lyra,” I say as Potter follows me into my narrow entrance hall. “She'll trip you up if she can.”

“Is this the cat from the vet's office? You actually kept her?” Potter kneels down and holds out his hand for Lyra to sniff. She eyes him warily for a moment before turning, tail held high, and sauntering away. _Good cat,_ I think. 

“Of course I kept her,” I say as we walk back to the living room and I set Teddy down on the floor. Lyra prances over and they resume their cuddle. I'm surprisingly less nervous than I thought I would be. Perhaps it's because Potter himself seems so uncomfortable, he's in my territory, after all. “Why would I go through the trouble of saving her life only to cast her out onto the streets again?”

“I dunno,” Potter shrugs. “Just have trouble imagining you having a cat. What kind of name is Lyra, anyway?”

“A perfectly respectable one. The Lyra constellation, while small, contains Vega, one of the brightest stars in the sky. It also borders Draco, if you must know.”

Potter flashes that sloppy, half grin I'm so fond of hating. “I guess that fits then. Oh, and I brought this,” he adds, clumsily shoving a bottle of at me.

“Wine, Potter? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you thought this was a date,” I tease.

I'm starting to like the way Potter looks when he's blushing. 

I hand the wine back to him and pick Teddy from the floor. “Come on, if Teddy doesn't eat soon, he'll get fussy and then we'll never get him to bed.”

“Get him to bed? We?” 

“Of course, Potter. You didn't think you could just come in here, eat my food, play with my cousin, and dash out without helping? We'll put Teddy to bed, but you're changing his nappy.”

xxx

Teddy doesn't want to eat, which means we don't get to either. Potter tries to help and coax Teddy into taking the small bites of meat and veg I've cut for him. It takes almost thirty minutes for us to get him to eat his small plate — half of which he throws on the floor anyway — but thankfully Potter had the foresight to put our plates under warming charms.

“I know I promised you food,” I say to Harry as I cast a cleansing charm on Teddy's sticky hands, “but I think I'd rather get Teddy bathed and into bed first. He's already being a little monster and if he doesn't get to sleep soon, he'll only act out more and be even harder to put down.”

Harry agrees and follows me down the hall towards the bathroom. Potter hovers awkwardly in the doorway, as if unsure whether or not he should be there. I peel Teddy's clothes from him and thrust him into Potter's arms. Teddy just giggles and takes a swipe at Potter's glasses.

“Check his nappy, I'll draw the bath,” I announce as I fill the tub with a few inches of warm water. Potter looks thoroughly out of his element as he transfigures the counter into a changing station and lays Teddy down. I'm a little disappointed to hear Potter announce that Teddy is clean, it would be quite amusing to watch him try to clean a soiled diaper without asking for help. 

He brings Teddy over and sets him in the bath. Potter looks absolutely thrilled when I hand him a wet flannel and indicate that he should be the one to clean the child. I've done it enough that the novelty has worn off, but Potter's obvious lack of experience with children means he's both incredibly excited and scared shitless at being given the honor.

“Should I shampoo his hair?” 

“Don't worry about it. We can to it tomorrow. Er — I can do it tomorrow,” I correct. It says a lot, perhaps too much, that I feel so comfortable sharing these sorts of domestic duties with Potter. But I mustn't get too used to it: he's only here to spend a little time with his godson. Come tomorrow, we'll be back to nothing more than awkward nods as we pass each other on the street.

Getting Teddy dressed for bed and into the transfigured crib in my guestroom is easier than I'd expected. I conjure a small sphere of glowing light, charmed to hover above his crib throughout the night and place a gentle kiss on his forehead before I lay him down. 

“Goodnight Teddy,” Harry whispers as he covers the child with a blanket. Teddy gives a yawn and makes a gurgling sound I can only interpret as his version of “goodnight,” before turning over and taking his thumb into his mouth.

Potter and I tiptoed into the hall and back to the kitchen.

“I know you offered dinner, but if you'd rather I just go, it's all right,” Harry says awkwardly. “I don't want to impose.”

“Don't be stupid,” I say as I summon two wineglasses from the cupboard. “I couldn't eat all this myself and I detest leftovers. Besides, who's going to help me drink this lovely bottle of wine you so thoughtfully brought over?”

I uncork the bottle with a simple charm and pour two large glasses, setting them on the table. “For fuck's sake Potter, I invited you for a meal. Sit. Drink. Eat.”

He mumbles an apology and takes his seat, banishing the warming charms over our food. We tuck in without another word and I'd be lying if I said it was a companionable silence. Potter keeps stealing stealthy glances at me between bites. Rather, he must think they're stealthy, but I notice each and every one of them. Just because I want to shag the bastard blind doesn't mean I don't find him to be the most obnoxious prat in the entire wizarding world. I was under no obligation to open my home to him in the first place and have been nothing but be polite and accommodating all evening, and yet he still watches me out of the corner of his eye as though I'm going to suddenly whip out an old Death Eater mask and AK him myself. 

“That's it, Potter. I've had enough. Whatever it is you want to say or to ask, spit it out.”

“W-what?” 

“I don't know how you're going to make it as an Auror, you've got the subtlety of a drunken Hippogriff. You want to say something so badly you're practically crawling out of your skin. So say whatever horribly rude or accusatory thing you're thinking so I can throw you out and we can get on with our lives.”

“What? Malfoy — no! Nothing like that!” Potter yelps. “I was just — I was just thinking that you're not the person I thought you were at all.”

“What's that supposed to mean exactly?” I know I'm purposefully misinterpreting his comment, but I can't help myself. This entire situation is too weird, and for all its weirdness, it feels strangely familiar. I need to set things back on course, I need to pick a fight.

“I dunno, it just means — you surprise me, Malfoy. In good ways. I wouldn't have thought you were the type to rescue kittens or be so good with children.” 

“What, did you think I was the type that ate kittens for breakfast and sacrificed children in Dark Arts rituals?” I bite.

“What? Malfoy, no! I didn't — I don't think anyone does that —”

“—anyone but _me_ , you mean —”

“Goddammit Malfoy, would you just shut your pointy fucking face for one fucking minute?” Harry yells. I don't know how it doesn't wake up Teddy, but it does get me to shut up right smart. When Harry Potter yells, people listen — and despite everything I may wish, I'm no exception. “I'm trying to apologize here, to say that I misjudged you and that I was wrong, but if you keep this shit up then maybe I won't bother.”

I shut my mouth, cowed into silence by Harry's outburst. A long moment of silence passes between us. 

“I don't eat kittens,” I pout when I can stand the silence no longer, because I don't know what else to say.

Suddenly, Harry starts to laugh, large, belly laughs that shake his entire frame. He throws his head back and nearly howls his amusement.

“Potter?” I ask, more than mildly concerned. Potter is laughing like a true mad man. “Are you all right? Do you...should I call someone on the Floo? Do you need a Healer?”

“A mind Healer, perhaps,” he says as his laughter fades.“You drive me absolutely mental, Malfoy. I think I might actually be going mental because of you,” he sighs. His angry expression is gone and in its place is bemusement.

“I fail to see how your mental instability is any fault of mine,” I say as I empty my glass of wine and reach to the bottle for a refill. Potter's laughing fit has broken the oppressive tension of the room and I can feel myself warming to him, despite myself. I try to hide my smile behind my glass. 

“Oh, it's definitely your fault, Malfoy.” Harry takes the wine from my hand and refills his own glass. “My friends have always said that I'm a bit obsessed with you, and now I know that I'm truly cracking, because I believe the nature of that obsession has changed.”

“Obsession?” I raise an eyebrow in challenge. “Explain yourself, Potter.”

“Only if you promise not to interrupt or throw a tantrum before I finish.” He gives me a mockingly stern look.

I reply with a look that says _get on with it already,_ but my bored impatience is all for show. My impatience is of a much more anticipatory variety.

Potter rubs his face and take a huge breath.

“I used to think you were stalking me — remember that? I saw you _everywhere._ But you weren't stalking me at all, were you? Hell, you were dating someone else the whole time!” He scratches the back of his neck and gives a nervous laugh. “I saw you everywhere I went, but not because you were following me like I'd thought. I saw you, because I can't help but see you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Potter.”

“You said you wouldn't interrupt!” he cries. I'm tempted to point out that I technically never agreed to his terms, but think better of it. I snap my mouth shut and motion for him to continue. 

“I didn't even realize it until I confronted you about it, but I think I understand now. I started watching you in sixth year, Malfoy, and I don't think I ever really stopped,” he admits. “I never stopped watching, but I guess I did stop looking. Because now when I look at you, I don't see the person I thought you were at all. I see someone completely different, someone I think I'd like to get to know.”

My mouth has gone dryer than McGonagall's cunt and my stomach might as well be doing a bloody tap dance routine. What Potter is saying sounds vaguely like a confession. But a confession of what? 

“And, what — what do you see now?” I ask quietly, playing with the rim of my wineglass.

“I see a clever, sarcastic, and completely maddening wanker,” he smiles. He reaches out and rests his hand on my knee, tracing small circles on my leg with his thumb. The jolt of electricity I feel isn't at all muted by the thin fabric that separates his fingers from my skin. “I see a gorgeous arsehole who isn't afraid to stand up for himself and won't let anyone hold him down. He's rude and abrasive, perhaps even cruel, but he saves kittens and bathes babies when he thinks no one is looking. And he may be one of the most arrogant gits I've ever met in my life, but it’s not without warrant. He's also one of the most beautiful.”

Despite all his compliments (and some underhanded insults) my brain sticks on that one word. “Beautiful? You think I'm beautiful?” I ask with a snort.

“Now's not the time to fake humility,” he smiles and squeezes my knee again. “You know you are.”

“I'm not though. I'm disfigured, Potter, _scarred_.” 

I wish I could eat the words before they're even halfway out of my mouth. I should not be saying these things, not to Potter. Potter has always been one of my greatest weaknesses; it's suicidal to expose the others to him. But the way he is looking at me, his gaze so open and expectant, I find myself _wanting_ to share with him, _wanting_ to let him in, _wanting_ to let him get to know me as I am.

Potter takes my left wrist in his hand and deftly unbuttons the cuff of my shirt. He pushes the fabric up and strokes his fingers over the inked flesh of my inner arm. “This?” he asks. “This is a battle scar, a war wound. It shows what you went through, what you survived.” 

I almost lose my ability to hold myself upright when Potter leans over and presses his lips against the mark. “This doesn't disfigure you, this is a part of what makes you beautiful.”

The soft kiss makes my mind reel and my stomach flip. I want so badly to give in, to let Potter's pretty words wash over me, but something is holding me back. This cannot be true. Five minutes ago I'd have sworn that Potter wouldn't have pissed on me if I was on fire, and now he's kissing my dark mark and calling me beautiful. 

It makes no sense and things that don't make sense scare me. There was a simple beauty in my one-sided obsession with Potter. It would never, it _could never_ , be reciprocated. There was no chance for disappointment, because there was no chance for anything. As much as I have fantasized about being with Potter, the idea that he might really want me has never once crossed my mind. I was pleasantly tickled by his flirting tones earlier, but this? This scares me and my self-preservation instincts kick in. I have to put an end to the madness.

“I have others,” I insist. “Other battle scars, ones that you won't find so beautiful.”

“I doubt that, but I'd like to see them if you'd show me. I want you to know how beautiful I think you are.”

This is the moment of judgment then. When I pull apart the fabric of my shirt, he will be reminded that what has happened between us was more than war and survival, it was personal. The scars on my chest will show him that it doesn't matter what either of us want, we can't be anything besides what we already are. We'll go back to the cool civility of the past few months and it will be fine, because that, at least, makes sense.

Suddenly, I'm surprisingly nervous. Only a handful of people besides my parents and the Healers have seen these scars. My hands tremble as I reach up to unbutton the collar of my shirt. Potter makes an impatient noise when I fail to unbutton the top button for the third time. He swats my hand away. I have to close my eyes as the fabric parts because I can't bear to see the look on his face when he sees them. 

I don't need to look down to know what they look like. Slightly raised stripes of shiny skin, paler even than the rest of me, crisscrossing my chest and abdomen. The scars stand out, outlined by an angry shade of red that will never fade. From a distance they look like neat slashes, but up close you can see the way the dark magic twisted and seared the flesh. Snape's timely healing spells closed the wounds and stopped the bleeding, but the skin never grew back properly. 

Potter lets out of a low rush of air. “My god, Malfoy. What happened to you? Did Voldemort do this?” He traces a finger down the length of the uppermost scar. I can't even feel it against the dead tissue there. 

_Don't let him see you cry, don't let him see you cry,_ I chant in my head. But it's useless. I feel so vulnerable and exposed like this, even more than I'd anticipated. Hot tears escape my eyes even though I haven't looked at him yet. A part of me is angry, but more than anything I am hurt that he doesn't remember. 

“Malfoy? Talk to me.” Panic is creeping into Potter's voice and a small part of me is happy to hear it. “Tell me what happened.”

I open my eyes and hold his gaze. “I shouldn't have to,” I say in a choked voice.. “You were there.”

Potter's eyes widen comically. Or at least, it would have been comical if I hadn't wanted so much to punch and hex and kiss him all at once. 

“Me?” His voice has gone an octave higher. “Is that...? Holy shit, Malfoy. Was that really...? You mean — the bathroom?”

Watching Potter lose his balance helps me regain mine. “If you want an answer, Potter, you've got to pick one question and actually finish it.” I have to remind myself to breath at this point, but at least my voice comes out steadier.

Harry doesn't ask anything, but turns a sickly shade of green instead. He bolts from his chair and bends over the kitchen sink, making dry, hacking noises.

I wait for his sickness to pass, but no make no move to comfort him. A dry heave or two at the sight of my scars is nothing in comparison to the pain I felt when I got them. But even with that in mind, I can feel my hurt and anger dissipating with every violent shudder of Potter's body.

“So you do remember, then,” I say once Potter has stopped retching.

“How could I forget? I just — I didn't expect...Snape said there might be some scarring, but not, not like that. I never knew. I never knew that I did that to you.” Harry drags himself over and slumps into his chair. Beads of perspiration have formed at his hairline. 

I take pity on him. I've had longer to adjust to their existence than he has, after all. This is my life; these are my scars. There is nothing to be done. I Accio a glass from the cabinet and fill it with a quick Aguamenti, and push it towards him. Potter gives me a grateful smile and downs the glass in a single gulp. I refill it with my wand, but he only sips it this time as he looks at me.

“You must think I'm a monster, don't you?”

“The Giant Squid is a monster, Potter. You're just an idiot.”

“I am, aren't I?” He says with a humorless laugh. Potter leans over and presses his head against the wood of the table. “I am such a fucking idiot,” he groans as he bangs his head against the table.

“What the fuck are you doing, Potter? Stop that!” The last thing I need is to explain to a group of Aurors why I've returned their department mascot with a brain injury.

Potter cranes his neck to look up at me. “You must really hate me. How can you even stand to be in the same room with me right now?”

“I don't hate you. Not anymore, at least.” I look away and shrug. “I wish I could. It would make everything easier, certainly.”

Harry shakes his head. “You should, Malfoy. You have every right to; just look at what I did. I am such an idiot! I can't believe I ever thought that we —” he cuts himself off with a strangled cry. 

“That we what?” I ask, curiosity piqued. I haven't forgotten the beginnings of his strange, aborted confession from earlier.

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I thought you knew, that night. I thought you knew it was me. You did see someone in the gardens, didn't you? You knew someone was there?” I nod and he continues. “I knew it was you straight away. And I guess I convinced myself that you knew it was me too, that you were...that you were doing that _for me_. I thought that in some weird, roundabout Slytherin way you were telling me that you were interested in me. That was when I started to watch you differently.”

“You're telling me, Potter, that the thing that instigated your interest in 'getting to know me' better was watching me get buggered like a cheap whore at a black robe event?” I arch a brow. 

At least Potter has the decency to blush. “That does sound terribly shallow, doesn't it?” he chuckles nervously.

“Well, I did notice your preoccupation with beauty. Sorry to disappoint in that department.”

“No! I meant what I said earlier. You _are_ beautiful. Those,” he says with vehemence, pointing at my chest, “those do nothing to detract from it. Those are a reflection on me, Malfoy, not you.” Harry groans and cradles his head in hands again. “This is so fucked. I feel like the biggest arsehole in the world, harboring some stupid, sick, passionate-rivals-turned-passionate-lovers fantasy in my brain, when you really should hate me. I’ll go before I make an even bigger arse of myself,” he adds, pushing back from the table so quickly that the chair falls to the ground behind him.

I snatch him by the arm before he can get halfway across the room. We've come this far; it's now or never.

“I already told you, I don't hate you —”

“— But you should!”

“But I don't. Stop being such a drama queen and listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once.” I close my eyes and steel my nerves. I can do this. I just can't look at him while I do. “I did know it was you in the garden. I wanted you to see, not because it was my way of letting you know I was interested — I would have thought it was pointless anyway — but because I thought it was the closest I would ever get to actually being with you. Because I want you. I don't know why or when it started, and I swear that no matter what Pansy says I was never really stalking you. I want to smash your face in sometimes, Potter, its true, but I don't hate you. Not truly.” 

I have to stop and take a desperate gulp of air. I'm talking too quickly to bother breathing between sentences. But I have to get it out, there is something inside my gut driving me forward, pushing me, whispering _now, now, now_ frantically in my head. 

“You say you'd like to get to know me and I'd like that too, but I'm scared shitless. I've never wanted anything more and there are so many reasons why it's crazy and its won't work — the scars, the war, the dead — but I can't stop myself. I want it so badly it hurts to think about sometimes, so I try not to think about it ever. But I don't hate you, Harry Potter, don't you ever think that. And don't try telling me that I should, because I don't think I can.”

I've run out of words and breath, but I keep my eyes shut tight. I'm scared of what I might find if I open them. So I just sit there and wait. What seems like an eternity passes and I still haven't heard Potter start to laugh or run from the room. I let curiosity get the best of me and crack one eye open.

Potter is standing dumbstruck, staring at me as though I've just smacked him upside the head with a rainbow trout. I clear my throat, genuinely concerned that all the head-banging has actually done harm. Before his name can even form on my lips, he lunges towards me. 

You'd think that having survived a war I'd have better reflexes, but he truly catches me unawares. My chair almost topples, but I grab the side of the table to steady myself. Thank Merlin I regain my stability, because I soon have Harry Potter in my lap, attacking my face with his mouth.

Technically speaking, it's one of the worst kisses I've ever received. Clumsy and wet, he's trying to kiss every inch of my mouth all at once. It's as though he's been practicing with that damned Crup of his. Even though I should be repulsed by the sheer amount of saliva involved, I'm light-headed with happiness. What he lacks in finesse, he more than makes up in enthusiasm — not to mention the fact that it's Harry fucking Potter and he's in my lap. It's everything I've fantasized about for the past year and so much more. My heart is pounding with fear and arousal but now that I've tasted him on my lips, I don't know if I can ever go back. I hope Gryffindor courage can be sexually transmitted, because I'm going to need a lot of it if we are actually going to do this.

He slides his hand underneath my open shirt and the bolt of electric desire that shoots to my cock nearly unseats me again. Even though I know the scar tissue is dead and unfeeling, it's almost as though I can feel the rough pads of his fingertips against my skin. When his hand slides lower and teases around my nipple, there is nothing I can do to hold back my surprised gasp. My hips snap up involuntarily and holy Merlin, I can feel the length of his prick through his denims. He rolls his hips and moans into my mouth. I'm incredibly happy and deliriously randy, but we can't. 

Not like this, not just yet.

I end the kiss and try to disentangle myself from him. He ignores my attempts to free myself and buries his head in the crook of my neck, nibbling on the thin skin he finds. Gods, I want nothing more than to throw my head back and let him eat every inch of me, but I have to stop this. It just might be the hardest thing I've ever done.

“Potter, stop,” I plead, pulling away once again.

“What's wrong?”

I want to kiss away the confusion and hurt in his eyes, but that would defeat the purpose. I rest my forehead against his forehead and sigh. “We can't do this.”

“Why?” Potter asks in a small, almost petulant voice. “I thought — we both want it. Don't you want it? I know it won't be easy with our history, but...”

“I do want it, I do,” I say and realize for the first time how true that actually is. It's big and scary — I've never put myself out there like this and certainly not with someone like Harry — but I can't imagine going back. The only way is forward, to see this thing through. 

If that much Gryffindor courage has seeped into me just through his saliva, I'm going to be a bloody superhero by the time we finish fucking for the first time.

I give Potter a kiss, just a tender, dry kiss on his lips to let him know I'm not going away. “I do want it, but I want to do it right. You may not remember, but I have a boyfriend. I can't start something with you while I'm still with him. It's not fair to either of you.”

Harry smiles. It's the wide, open, genuinely happy smile that he usually reserves for his friends. It's the most marvelous smile I've ever seen, because it's for me.

He gives me a chaste kiss of his own. “Friend to animals, good with children, and a faithful partner to boot? I rather do think that I'm beginning to like Draco Malfoy .”

“You’d better,” I grin, not even caring that it's my shit-eating happy one, “ because you're stuck with him now.”

xxx

“He could at least try to look heartbroken,” I complain, sulking into my champagne.

Nicolas is at the bar, his arm around a short twink with acne scars and shit-brown hair.

“Oh don't be silly, Draco,” Pansy rolls her eyes. “He knew you'd chuck him for The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Steal-His-Boyfriend as soon as Potter so much as looked at you twice.”

“What makes you think that? I never told him about Harry.”

“Oh, Harry now is it?” she teases. “You didn't have to tell him. I did. Oh, don't give me that look Draco - he's family. I was just protecting him, and besides, I didn't say anything than wasn't painfully obvious. You both had a little fun together, no one got hurt, where's the harm in that?”

I make a non-committal sound in the back of my throat and take another swill of my drink. “Any other parts of my life you'd like to micromanage for me?”

“Actually, I was having a peek at your dayplanner this afternoon...”

I roll my eyes. “You're a cow.”

“Hmm, yes. But your favorite cow, right?” She's practically preening, a little too pleased with herself as usual. But she's not wrong, she is my favorite cow.

“Speak of the green-eyed devil, your paramour approaches. Allow me to excuse myself, darling, you know I tend to get splotchy if I'm around Gryffindors for too long. Terrible allergy.”

I watch Pansy float off into the crowd as Harry pushes his way through it, two fresh glasses of champagne in his hand.

“You look wonderful tonight,” he says in a low voice as he hands me a new drink. We've been dating for almost three months by now and the sound of his voice still sends shivers down my spine.

“You look quite dashing as well,” I say as I place my empty glass on a tray being carried by a passing house elf. “You know how I feel about a man in formal robes.”

Harry raises a brow. “Do I?”

I feel slightly unsteady on my feet. The quirk of that thick brow, the lewd suggestiveness of it, just does things to me. I chance a covert glance to make sure no one is watching us and pull Harry out of the ballroom and into the deserted corridor. My leg slides easily between his and I buck my hips, pressing my groin roughly against his and letting him feel how I feel about a man in formal robes. Just the very sight of Harry is liable to give me a halfie at anytime, no matter how inopportune. 

“I'd much rather just Apparate back to mine and let you fuck me into the mattress,” I whisper into his ear. He lets out a breathy moan that has my stomach in knots. “But it would be rude for us to leave so early in the evening.”

Harry's hands snake around my waist and trail lower, grabbing my arse and pulling me against him. My surprised “oh!” turns into an appreciative “oh” as his hands knead the flesh of my arse. 

“We don't have to leave, you know.” He nips at my earlobe and I whimper. “I'm sure there's a balcony around here we can find. I know how fond of those you are.”

I don't even bother to respond. I know exactly where to go. Grabbing his hand, I pull him into a side-along that deposits us on a rear-facing balcony, overlooking a small row of tents set up for the garden party. It's early still, and there are dozens of people milling around below us. Before Harry even has the chance to right himself, I shove him back against the brick of the building.

“Cast a Notice-Me-Not,” I demand as I wrestle with the fasteners of his robes. I could have cast the spell myself, I know, but Harry can do it _wandlessly_ and nothing gets me hotter than a superfluous display of power.

A wave of Harry's magic washes over me and I sink to my knees. He holds the fabric of his robes apart so that I can run my hand up the length of him. The outline of his prick, heavy and full, strains against the placket of his trousers. Leaning forward, I press my lips to his crotch, inhaling Harry’s musky scent. 

“Don't tease, Draco.” Harry says as he cards his fingers through my hair, twisting the strands in a strong grip and holding me immobile. I wait, lips parted expectantly, while Harry pulls himself free. He's got the most beautiful cock I've ever seen, thick and solid, flushed deep red with arousal. 

He pulls back the foreskin and traces my lips with the swollen head of his cock. A drop of pre-come has already gathered in his slit. My tongue darts out to taste it, but Harry pulls out of reach and tsks disapprovingly. _Now who's being the tease?_ I want to scream. But I never get the chance, because when I open my mouth to protest, Harry thrusts forward, feeding his cock into my mouth.

I hum happily around the intrusion. I'm a natural born cocksucker, as Harry likes to point out. I do my best to keep my jaw slack and open for him. I like it when Harry fucks my mouth, only slightly less than when he fucks my arse. Nothing makes me happier than to open myself for him, to watch him come undone buried deep within me.

Harry hits the back of my throat. “Fuck,” he groans. “You look so good like that.”

I look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. He groans again and thrusts into my mouth, harder and faster than before. I give him a saucy wink and Harry laughs through his panting. 

He pulls out of my mouth and hooks his hands under my armpits. “Up,” he commands. I let him hoist me to my feet and spin me around, pressing my chest against the brick. “Gods, Draco, I need to fuck you, right bloody now.”

I smile against the brick and wiggle my arse in invitation. Harry yanks up my robes, growling at the extra fabric that gets in his way. With the dexterity of a man on a mission, he yanks down my trousers and pants, exposing my arse to the warm evening air. Another wave of magic washes over me. Harry has cast a lubrication charm for my arse and a cushioning charm for the wall. He may be a brute, but he's a considerate one. My breath catches in my throat when his fingers slip between my crack and find my hole.

“You're stretched already,” Harry notes as his first finger slips inside easily.

“Yes,” I hum, “I was planning for this.”

“Oh, really?” A second finger joins the first and I keen. “So you've just been walking around like this all day, stretched and waiting for me to shove my prick inside you, like the little cockslut you are?”

“Your little cockslut,” I moan as a third finger joins the other two. The stretch is incredible, I'm burning inside and out. “I want to be ready for you anytime.”

Harry groans another curse and the full feeling inside me disappears. I'd whine about it if I didn't know what was coming next. Harry pushes between my shoulder blades and I acquiesce, letting him bend me over so that I'm nearly folded in half. 

I bite my lip to hold back a whimper when I feel the blunt head of his cock nudge against the inflamed rim of my entrance. Slowly, inch by glorious inch, Harry pushes inside me. His pace is tortuous, designed to drive us both to the brink with the slow tease. I like that he fucks me fast and hard, but I love that he always enters slow and brutal. Ever centimeter of my skin burns under his touch. 

“All right?” he asks when he's fully seated. Like I said, he's a brute, but a gentlemanly one. A nod and another wiggle indicate I'm ready. He grabs me by the hips and I brace myself against the wall. Even with the cushioning charm in place, I know I'm in for quite a ride.

Harry pulls out and pushes back in, almost as slowly as when he first entered me. But with each in-and-out, his pace quickens. Harry is opening my body to him, each thrust meeting less resistance than the last. In no time, he's worked me loose and sloppy and can begin to fuck me in earnest.

My prick hangs swollen and heavy between my legs, bouncing in time with Harry's thrusts. “Wrap your hand around your cock,” he whispers into my ear. “Bring yourself off for me, Draco. I want to feel you come.”

I groan and do as he says, taking myself in hand and beating off as Harry drives inside. I don't care if fucking the savior under a concealment charm at a work function means I'm going to hell; in this moment, I've tasted heaven. 

Harry's hand covers mine and tugs me quicker. I drop my hand away and let him do the work, focusing instead on the intense sensations that he's giving me. He grunts and groans and bites my neck. His steady pace becomes erratic and the tugs on my cock become desperate and rough, almost painful.

“Fuck, Harry, I'm going to come,” I announce. I can feel it, that sharp tension in my belly that's been pulled painfully taut since Harry first whispered in my ear is about to snap. And when it does, I'll be lost. 

“Do it, Draco. Do it. Come for me,” he commands.

And I do. One more brutal tug and well-angled thrust and I'm gone, tumbling over the edge and painting the brick of the building in white stripes with my come. Harry squeezes my prick, coaxing the final drops of my release through the slit of my head and onto his fingers. He holds them to my lips and I don't need to be told what to do.

Taking his come-stained fingers in my mouth, I lick them clean and bite down. The wall in front of me is the only thing that keeps me upright as Harry fucks my abused hole with wild abandon. His hands return to my hips and then its three final fucks, deep and hard and I swear I can feel him in my intestines. Harry roars and pulls me up, back flat against his chest as he explodes inside me. Anyone who says they can feel the cum inside their arse is a liar, but just the knowledge that it is there, coating my insides, marking me as _his_ , is enough.

Arse fully plundered and cock well-wanked, I pull off of Harry and turn, slumping against the wall. I don't trust my legs to hold me up and he must not trust his either, because he leans against the building beside me. A moment passes as we try to catch our breaths, but then he turns to look at me and his smile is so bright that my breath catches in my throat.

“I don't care if it's rude to leave,” Harry says with a manic grin. He looks ridiculous, with that goofy smile and his trousers halfway down his thighs. But for some reason, ridiculous works for him. “After that, I definitely need to rest.”

I grab him by the collar of his rumpled robes and pull him towards me. “Rest up,” I say as I kiss him softly. “Because you know I'll be wanting to do that again in an hour or so.”

Harry chuckles and kisses me. Our tongues swirl and I can't help but sigh into his mouth. I feel so sated. So happy.

“You're going to be the death of me, Draco. I just know it.”

I smile against his lips. “Good. That was my plan all along.”


End file.
